“I am not at all tired, my dear,” said I, “and would much prefer to go out.”

“If you’re sure you would,” returned Miss Jellyby, “I’ll get my things on.”

Ada said she would go too, and was soon astir.  I made a proposal to Peepy, in default of being able to do anything better for him, that he should let me wash him and afterwards lay him down on my bed again.  To this he submitted with the best grace possible, staring at me during the whole operation as if he never had been, and never could again be, so astonished in his life—­looking very miserable also, certainly, but making no complaint, and going snugly to sleep as soon as it was over.  At first I was in two minds about taking such a liberty, but I soon reflected that nobody in the house was likely to notice it.

What with the bustle of dispatching Peepy and the bustle of getting myself ready and helping Ada, I was soon quite in a glow.  We found Miss Jellyby trying to warm herself at the fire in the writing-room, which Priscilla was then lighting with a smutty parlour candlestick, throwing the candle in to make it burn better.  Everything was just as we had left it last night and was evidently intended to remain so.  Below-stairs the dinner-cloth had not been taken away, but had been left ready for breakfast.  Crumbs, dust, and waste-paper were all over the house.  Some pewter pots and a milk-can hung on the area railings; the door stood open; and we met the cook round the corner coming out of a public-house, wiping her mouth.  She mentioned, as she passed us, that she had been to see what o’clock it was.

But before we met the cook, we met Richard, who was dancing up and down Thavies Inn to warm his feet.  He was agreeably surprised to see us stirring so soon and said he would gladly share our walk.  So he took care of Ada, and Miss Jellyby and I went first.  I may mention that Miss Jellyby had relapsed into her sulky manner and that I really should not have thought she liked me much unless she had told me so.

“Where would you wish to go?” she asked.

“Anywhere, my dear,” I replied.

“Anywhere’s nowhere,” said Miss Jellyby, stopping perversely.

“Let us go somewhere at any rate,” said I.

She then walked me on very fast.

“I don’t care!” she said.  “Now, you are my witness, Miss Summerson, I say I don’t care—­but if he was to come to our house with his great, shining, lumpy forehead night after night till he was as old as Methuselah, I wouldn’t have anything to say to him.  Such asses as he and Ma make of themselves!”

“My dear!” I remonstrated, in allusion to the epithet and the vigorous emphasis Miss Jellyby set upon it.  “Your duty as a child—­”

“Oh!  Don’t talk of duty as a child, Miss Summerson; where’s Ma’s duty as a parent?  All made over to the public and Africa, I suppose!  Then let the public and Africa show duty as a child; it’s much more their affair than mine.  You are shocked, I dare say!  Very well, so am I shocked too; so we are both shocked, and there’s an end of it!”